a fantasy based on reality
by Mein Liebling
Summary: None of them wanted this. The fire that burned them too deep and scarred them so they could never heal. :: 1. A Regent and a Prince. 2. Beginning (or) Death. 3. A King. 4. Scars. :: [AUs, drabbles/oneshots, based off of FF quotes and prompts.]
1. A Regent and a Prince

_"He who wishes to be obeyed must know how to command."_

-Niccolo Machiavelli

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 **[long ago we looked upon a foreboding sky**

 **the memory of the star that threatened all burns eternal in our hearts]**

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 _"Are we sure he is fit to rule? Such a young child could not possibly-"_

You shuffled closer to your brother, curling your palms into fists as you clenched onto his elaborate robe. He absentmindedly shifted closer to you, running a discreet hand through your hair, and you felt the tension that had settled in your stomach fade from the familiar gesture.

 _"And not even of the royal bloodline! How could he-"_

 _"Only as a regent for the Crown Prince, until he is of age and ready-"_

 _"If you think I will accept that-"_

Your brother was anxious, you could tell, tapping his fingers from where he was settled on the left side of the empty, ornate chair at the head of the table. He didn't want this; the pressure, the gazes, harsh words, and expectations. You didn't either, as you felt the advisors gazes wander over to where you were sitting next to him, in a chair that shouldn't have been yours.

 _"Nobody expects you to accept that, Weasley, you-"_

 _"Why don't you just-"_

Your brother was at the end of his patience, too exhausted and too worried to do anything but push his chair back from the table and place his hands on the old wood in front of him. The advisors had stopped talking the moment he moved, and you could see the dread they had in their eyes as they waited for him to speak, to see if he proved them right or wrong.

You too were exhausted, emotionally and physically. You wanted to sit with Albus and Lily in your rooms and cry. You wanted to go run with your cousins down the city streets and beg change off of your brother. You wanted your parents.

(You wanted so many things that you knew wouldn't happen.)

"I will rule only as a regent for James until he has reached majority. The council will decide any major decisions involved in the ruling of this country. We will not have a child King."

 _"Lupin-"_

Your brother's tone was nearly ice. "I will not allow you to force James into anything he does not want."

 _"You do want to be King, don't you, Crown Prince?"_

You swallowed. "I agree with Ted-Edward's decision." You agreed, voice a little too tired and a little too quiet to be heard by them all.

The council was displeased, murmuring and shifting in their seats, but your Aunt Hermione was nodding with your decision, as the head of the Country's Security she always agreed with you, and your brother, Teddy, advisor to the Crown, was ranked far higher than the rest.

"Meeting adjourned." Teddy said, and you watched as his shoulders hunched forward when they had stopped looking at him. You dropped your head on Teddy's shoulder as he buried his face in his hands, and allowed the tears to shine in your eyes as you hid your face in his black robes.

You hated this.

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 _ **part 1 of this AU. unrelated drabbles/oneshots, all in same universe. aka milly gets to write FF and no one can say no.**_

 ** _i am such trash omfg._**

 _i don't own hp or the lovely lovely foreboding sky thing. thats from the new ffvii remake ! :D_

 _drabble comp, machiavelli quote up there, for slythereen._


	2. Beginning (or) Death

_"Nothing strengthens authority so much as silence."_

-Leonardo da Vinci

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 **[in its wake came an age of silence**

 **yet with each fond remembrance**

 **we knew**

 **those encountered were not forgotten]**

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No matter where he ran, people followed.

They flocked to him for different reasons- followers, believers, worshippers, or enemies, bounty hunters, cynics- but they always seemed to find him in the end, showering him in either affection or hatred.

It had been like that since the beginning; when he called for soldiers to pick up their arms and fight, when he hid in the dark, gloomy Grimmauld Place to figure out battle plans. It had happened even before the war had truly started, when it was still brewing under thinly veiled unease, when he was still bright eyed and people looked at him more in awe then in fear.

He didn't quite care. Not anymore.

They called him a liar, a freak, someone who wanted them all to bow down at his feet. Skeptics they were, and as he lashed out at them with a fiery tongue, they hissed at him in response and upped their lies, spreading them far and wide until no one trusted him. Believed him.

But they still followed him, no matter where he went, no matter how crazy they called him. His friends put their lives on the line, his followers, his worshippers they were, they went when he beckoned and called because he still had their faith.

He was their hero, even when he didn't want to be, because that is what they had been told. Even before he had ever met them, when all of them were told his stories at bedtime when they were children, or when hushed words of his continued survival rushed through the grapevine, they knew he was their hero. He had to be. He was.

And when death followed him wherever he went, well, that was just a given wasn't it? He was hero, a survivor- he was. Not them.

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The first ones to fall were his parents, when he was only a year old. They weren't the start of the war, nor were they the end. They were unimportant except for the hero they conceived. Maybe their deaths brought peace for a decade- no one really knew what had happened- but they weren't great. Special. Important. They were heroes, but they weren't. They were any other family in war.

(But they were his first two casualties, the people whispered.)

His third was his Defense teacher, little hero, eleven years old, being strangled to death by his professor. No one knows what happened here either, whispers spread through the school when children saw him and his friends being dragged to the hospital wing, information passing from mouth to mouth as they tried to hear whatever was being said by the professors. Their professor was dead, they knew, because of the hero. The hero killed him.

He killed him.

(Was it any surprise they feared him when the war started?)

His fourth wasn't a casualty. He wasn't dead, but he should have been, for it would have been far nicer.

Memory loss, they said, everyday it rewinds like a clock; "Hello, who are you?". He doesn't remember his own name, they murmur, don't get on the hero's bad side. No one knows what happened, one second the school was shutting down and people were petrified or killed, and then the next he comes up with a half-dead girl, a pale boy, an amnesiac professor, a sword and a bloody diary, and no one questioned it when it was announced the school would open in the fall.

(That would make too much sense wouldn't it?)

His casualties fifth, sixth, and seventh were not dead either, but later they would be.

(Of course they would, following Potter, everyone ends up dead.)

He nearly died his third year, from falling off his broom, and most people wished he did, because death was always lurking around the corner with him. Later that year there were words about Sirius Black at Hogwarts, Professor Lupin was a werewolf, and Snape was almost dead- and they weren't even surprised.

His eighth casualty was a student, someone loved, someone they could hope to beat the hero out.

He wasn't the hero, he was nice, a Hufflepuff, a true student. Normal. He didn't hang around under invisibility cloaks or sneak around serial killers, killing a professor and ruining the life of another. He wasn't stupid. He didn't think he was invincible. He was loved.

His death ruined it for the rest.

(Don't hang around Potter, they mutter, you'll end up dead or worse.)

No one knows his ninth, his tenth, eleventh or twelfth. He's running a Defense group one second and battling Death Eaters the next. He calls you, the students, cowards for not fighting, but fighting isn't what you do. You're not Potter. You're not the hero. You're not someone who can kill, who can fight, who can forgive past grievances simply because you need allies.

You're _human._ You're afraid. You've been told praises of him since you were children, and then you meet him, and you see his too big robes and hand me down clothes, and you cringe. He's not what you expected.

You're not sure what you expected.

But you know that death follows him everywhere, and you're not sure you want to walk in his shadow.

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 _ **PART 2.**_

 _ **disclaimers are in first chapter.**_

 _ **prompt: da vinci quote up there.**_

 _ **prompt: type-o week day one (using the prompts) beginning -or- death**_


	3. A King

_"The greater the power, the more dangerous the abuse."_

-Edmund Burke

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 **[that someday we would see them again**

 **perhaps it was no more than wishful thinking**

 **but after the long calm**

 **there are now the beginnings of a stir]**

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His first life, he was a priest.

An ironic job, considering how often he was punished for being a freak, or "Son of the Devil" during his childhood. He didn't do much during that life, he read to the poor, he praised the lord for all it was worth. He spit out harsh words against those who disagreed with him, against the Devil, witches, those who stole.

 _(Ha.)_

His second life wasn't quite interesting either. A mercenary, a thief, stealing money no matter where he went. It was a short life, one full of booze and women, and a quick ending with a sword piercing him through the heart.

His third life was better. A tailor, spending all of his days listening to gossip as he sewed pretty dresses for the high-end women.

(If there were secret pockets in there, perfect for hiding small bottles or daggers, well, that was for only him and them to know.)

He was loved during that time, at least by his clients, who would put up with anything just to see him smile.

"You've got a lovely face, darling." One would purr, and he would grasp her chin and pull her in close, just to see the lust in her eyes, and he would grin, showing off too sharp teeth.

"I know."

His fourth wasn't worth mentioning, but his fifth was his favorite.

They called him 'Sanguini' those days, and perhaps that was why during his sixth and seventh lives, before he was forever caught on his eighth, he choose that name again.

He was a Prince, a beloved one. He'd lure men and women both to his bed and enjoy the way they fell over him. Some called him frivolous, a manipulator, but as he sat on the throne the day after his father was poisoned, he'd only laugh and agree with them, to happy to do anything but watch as his plans were set into motion.

He was killed a year later, by a coup d'etat, but he had only laughed as they swarmed his throne room, armed with swords and daggers, and continued laughing as they cut off his head.

(He knew he'd be back, anyways.)

His sixth was a short one, dead by a plague, and in his seventh he was burned at the stake by his own parents when he was a child, but his eighth was the one where he started to enjoy it.

His eighth was a powerful one. They called him Sanguini, and they said it in both fear and lust, just like his servants had done all those years ago when he lured them into bed with him. That was when he learned about the wizarding world, about the power they held, and it didn't take long for him to convince a vampire passing through to bit him.

(Perhaps it was because he offered _oh so nicely,_ spread out on the bed with the vampire barely holding onto his sanity, but that could only be a part of it.)

And then he was immortal, powerful, and just like before humans and supernatural alike were easily swayed under his charisma. He built a strong coven, of vampires who wouldn't _dare_ go against him, not with his too sharp teeth and too beautiful eyes, and watched as the world formed under his grasp, even two thousand years later when he had moved on from ruling the world.

(And if people didn't know that he was guiding them, well, he had learned when he was a prince that people didn't take very well to others telling them what to do. It was best just do it yourself, and Sanguini was _very_ good at that.)

Sanguini sat back on his throne and watched, as people fell over themselves to come for his every whim, every beck and call, and laughed.

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 _ **part 3.**_

 _ **prompt: quote up there.**_


	4. Scars

" _If your actions inspire others to dream more, learn more, do more and become more, you are a leader."_

-John Quincy Adams

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 **[the reunion at hand may bring joy**

 **it may bring fear]**

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The first thing James noticed about Remus was his scar.

It was cut across his face, starting from the left eyebrow down to the corner of his mouth, and quite the ugly, prominent thing. He could tell it was at least a few years old, but he bit his tongue about asking him about it and instead questioned him for his name.

He noticed a couple hours later, when they were changing in their brand new dormitory (Gryffindor, just like his mother was) that there were similar scars, across his front and back, although Remus tried to hide them by changing quickly in the corner. His curiosity burned to ask where he had gotten them, why they looked like large claws or why some of them still seemed raw, but kept his mouth shut and instead wished his new classmates a good night.

Sometimes James could keep his mouth shut, especially if it involved something others weren't comfortable with.

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When Tom Riddle first came to Hogwarts, full of thirst for knowledge and desire for power, he had his own scars from the orphanage. Old ones, nasty ones, from tricks the other children played on him before he learned that he had to fight back. One was on the back of his right leg, a long jagged one, from when he was pushed onto a piece of wood from the debris of what was once a home. Another was on his shoulders, where it was a paler white then the rest of his skin, when they completely burned it all off by holding him down on a metal slide that still was smoking from a nearby bomb that had been dropped.

No one mentioned his scars when he changed at school, too disgusted at his rough hands and flawed skin. He sneered at their soft and perfect hands, smooth and unblemished; the hands of an aristocrat, a dying breed in the muggle world. They wouldn't live if they didn't get their hands dirty, he knew. They couldn't do anything if someone wasn't there to do it for them, or magic to aid them. With magic to heal up the small scrapes of childhood, to make it so it wasn't even there, they never learned. They never kept their scars. They didn't look down at them and be reminded of fond days long past, or harsh words that fueled their resolve.

They didn't learn, but Tom did.

And Tom knew what he had to do.

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Hermione was young, eleven, and bright eyed, with big bucked teeth and a thirst for knowledge as well. She could have been great, loved even perhaps by some of the more studious Slytherins and Ravenclaws, had she not had muggle blood.

She came with scars just like any other normal child. One on her knee, still a rather concerning purple from when she was pulled on concrete. Another on her arm, a burn mark, from where she had accidentally burned herself on the oven. A third was on the small of her back, from when a baby cousin had accidentally bit her, leaving a bite mark (that one was always very fun to explain).

But physical scars she could handle. She didn't think of them as goals, or remembering terrible things to blame herself for. Why should she? She looked at them and smiled, remembering when she was pulled on concrete by a too enthusiastic dog, or how delicious the cake was after she had put her arm under the facet and was given the first slice, or how much she loved to tease the baby cousin now that they had grown up.

She had her scars, but that's all they were. Scars.

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 _ **PART 4.**_

prompt: quote up there.


End file.
